Goodbye ol friend.....you look so sad just layin there......your head twisted sideways.....your neck splintered.....I did not know that log was so hard...or that you were so tired.......I heard the crack...felt you give..........and stood there in shock.......shed a tear but never fear.....you will live again....many more rick of wood we will conquer......just as soon as I get to town and get you a new handle!

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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy. William Butler Yeats

I tend not to share much of my poetry in public because the response is usually "Wow...is that about YOU?" meaning many people think that poems that touch on delicate subject matter must be autobiographical. I enjoy writing from "another's" perspective, but rarely share the finished work because I don't want to give anyone the impression I actually experienced or agreed with the subject matter. Having said that....

this one happens to be autobiographical.

Mosaic

She’s broken the teacups,The bowls and the plates,She’s shattered tureens,The saucers, a vase.The pieces are sortedBy color and shape.She now stands before themTo try and createSomething new with her lifeWith china and clay.

There are browns and creamsOf the warm, happy days,Greens for the summersWhen love was ablaze,Black shards of anger, fear and pain,And grays for sorrow, heartache and rain.

The decades of livingOf growing and givingOf loving and dreamingOf trusting and grieving…Her plans for the future,Her ideas of the past,Now lie in pilesOf broken glass.

She looks at the browns,The greens and the grays,The ivory and tan …Then turns her gazeTo the yellows and pinks,Purples and bluesThe beckoning huesOf what she feels and thinks,And she wonders if these pieces,The new and the old, can mesh,Can be married and whole.

The edges are jaggedWhere they used to be smooth.Fractured dish patternsOf what seemed to be truth.She’s afraid there’s no glueThat can bind all this glass Into something that reconcilesHer future and past.

She chooses a potOf sturdy red clay,A place to plant flowersFor a new summer day.She takes a deep breath,The glue now in place,She picks up a shardAnd begins to create.

Lynne Thompson1999

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dnalexander

Lynne, thanks for sharing, that is a great poem. I have seen your website of your art and that poem really tells me what your inspiration is for doing it. Brilliant poem. For those of you that want the graphical image check out" You should share more often.